


Paint Me With Your Colours

by EmptySurface



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Abduction, Canon Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Fem!Harry, Harry's having a really shitty time, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:57:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmptySurface/pseuds/EmptySurface
Summary: How could she have been so stupid to let this happen?Harriet frickin' Potter, Witch-Who-Won, acknowledged Auror, overpowered and abducted by a pair of muggles. The press would have a field-day.Seriously, at least if they'd put her in a damp cellar, she'd have known what was going on.





	1. The Very Bad Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silenceia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceia/gifts).



Aunt Petunia had never let her wear t-shirts when she'd been little. Or shorts.

No matter how hot it got, Harry was always forced to cover up, having to wear Dudley's winter jumpers and other shirts, and all of her cousin's t-shirts and shorts were either thrown away or given to charities. (Always with loud comments to the neighbours about it, because Aunt Petunia was ever so generous to those in need and they best not forget it!)

She'd thought, at first, that it might have been because she was a girl, but that hadn't been right, and she'd deep down known it.

Instead, it was because of the soulmark originating in the centre on Harry's back, stretching out until it seemed like it was trying to cover all of her, tendrils of it reaching down her upper arms, and even thighs.

It had been faint back then, though. Nothing more than washed-out grey lines dotting her skin in an unclear pattern until it looked like she might actually just have missed a few baths.

In combination with the scar on her face, Aunt Petunia could hardly look at her without a disapproving sneer.

(The fear hadn't registered until later. Because what kind of soulmate did she have that her mark was that large?)

As a ten year old, Harry had been torn between dreaming of some dashing prince that would rescue her from the Dursley, sweeping her away into the sunset, and feeling like it wasn't all that important, because surely they wouldn't be interested in someone like _her,_ no matter who her soulmate was.

She'd gotten Hagrid, instead, who showed her a whole different world. A world with _magic_.

You still couldn't see what Harry's mark depicted at that point, but she'd still found herself asking Hagrid about magic people and soulmarks, when he'd made it clear he didn't mind questions.

The years that followed saw her learning a great many things, and only a small amount of it had to do with soulmarks.

Lavender and Parvati giggled over magazines and books about Reading Meanings of Soulmarks every now and then, and Hermione had lectured her on the scientific angle, but it had all boiled down to a few things people were actually sure of.

The closer you and your soulmate were, the clearer it got, and it didn't have to be about physical distance.

Something which frustrated Hermione to no end, what with her own mark.

“It got clearer after I started Hogwarts, but if my soulmate's _here_ , then it should be more than this!” the girl had huffed at Harry more than once.

Harry really liked the dog on Hermione's left thigh, and the glint in it's eye was always sharp and intelligent.

(Ron's soulmark was an otter swimming playfully on his right hip, and Harry had always thought that if they stood side by side, it'd look like they were a _pair_.)

Fourth year rolled around, with the tournament and it was the first time Harry was actually _grateful_ her mark was so indistinct, seeing the sudden number of people claiming to match with her.

Rita Skeeter gleefully fanned the flames, encouraging people one moment, and then turned around and claimed she didn't _have_ a mark, due to being _damaged_ in the incident that killed her parents and made Harry famous to begin with.

Then there was the disastrous conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric dead and Voldemort back and everything looked like it couldn't get any worse.

And then Harry got out of the shower and Hermione dropped the book she'd went to grab from her bag and the two of them had spent the next hour in front of a conjured mirror, staring in fascination at the slightly darker lines on Harry's skin.

Not just darker, but more defined, actually connecting in a way that made a _picture_.

“It's a dragon,” Harry whispered, feeling faint, because she knew what one actually looked like now. Had seen one from closer than she'd ever cared to.

“No colour, yet,” Hermione said, tracing one of the lines down her shoulder and upper arm. “There's an awful lot of fire.”

“Didn't Lavender say that's a bad omen?” Harry wondered bleakly.

“That's nothing more than superstition,” her friend had scoffed, and it had been reassuring.

Not that it had completely erased the thought out of her head.

Fire could supposedly mean anything from destruction, fiery temper, harshness and conflict, to passion, warmth, love and rebirth, according to the books their dorm mates were so fond of.

Hermione's mark had started to colour in with pale blues and warm, though washed out, reds.

.

The years that followed were busy, but not busy enough she didn't take notice when her soulmark darkened further, the dragon in particular going darker and darker until it was a shining black with artful highlights that made it look almost _alive_.

Still no actual colours, though.

.

When the war was over and the worst of the battles had been won, after all the people that had died had been put to rest, Harry found herself at something of a loss.

It didn't last for long, though.

When the realisation set in that she was finally free to live her life, without a constant threat of near-certain death hanging over her, Harry threw herself head-first into _living_.

It was just bad luck that she eventually found herself in trouble once again, if of a new and rather strange variety.

“I'm sorry, are you sure you've got the right person?” she asked politely, peering up at the two very obviously _muggle_ men that had somehow managed to ambush her and taken her away and yeah, Harry had been more than exhausted, but that wasn't any kind of excuse.

She'd messed up, plain and simple.

“ _Shut up!_ ” one of the men snapped, looking close to enraged, though she wasn't sure why. “Be quiet or I will _make you stay quiet_ ,” he ordered with an ugly look on his face and she didn't doubt he meant business.

This wouldn't be much of an issue if she'd still had her wand on her person. Which she didn't, so it was a bit of a moot point.

With a quiet wince, Harry tried to settle herself in a marginally more comfortable position in the back of the van they were using to transport her.

It was in vain, though, because her head was pounding and there was a small measure of dry blood flaking on her face, which was itching something fierce and her mouth was dry.

Actually, while she already was on the subject, her whole body was hurting, and they'd tied her wrists behind her back far too tightly, but at least they'd left her ankles unbound.

Probably for easier transport, once they reached wherever they'd planned to take her.

The question, she supposed, was if these muggles had some mysterious reason to grab her, or if they were working on direction of a magical employer.

Who that might be, she had no idea, because the people who might want to get their hands on her weren't generally people who'd _lower_ themselves to work with 'filthy muggles'.

Had she pissed off any muggles lately?

Honestly, she didn't have much contact with the non-magical side of things these days, but she supposed Uncle Vernon might still feel resentful enough to orchestrate something.

Though that would cost money, so actually no. She couldn't think of anyone.

She doubted they'd grab her by mistake, either, because Harry's face was very distinctive, what with the scar on half of it.

...she wondered how long it would take before people realised she was gone.

Unless the two men still had her wand on either of their persons, then her wand would most likely have been dumped somewhere. Most likely the alley they'd gotten the drop on her. People didn't generally take note of a stick, carefully polished or not, unless they were magical and knew what it was.

Harry sighed and relaxed against the wall of the van as best she could.

Her head was hurting, she could barely feel her hands, and she couldn't see many option to try and get out of this situation right now.

It felt like they were driving rather fast, so trying to disrupt the driver might get all of them killed.

She might be able to try something when they stopped, but she'd have to see.

.

When they eventually _did_ stop, one of the two men got into the back and opened a water bottle, which he brought to her mouth.

Harry was thirsty enough she drank greedily when he pressed it to her lips, despite her better knowing.

She had a bad feeling about this whole thing but it'd been _hours_ , she didn't even know how many, because she'd been unconscious for some indeterminable amount of time, in addition to the part of the drive she'd been actually aware for.

Harry was feeling like shit.

So she drank the water, because she needed it, or she'd get worse in the long run due to dehydration.

Harry was entirely unsurprised when her vision started to blur a while later, and she was pulled under into unnatural sleep soon after.

She was unaware of anything that happened after that.

-x-x-x-

Harry came to annoyingly slowly.

Her head felt like it'd been filled with potion fumes and wool and there was a persistent pressure behind her eyes she wanted _gone_.

Her body felt heavy.

Patiently waiting for it to get better, Harry tried to get some kind of clue as to where she was by the sounds around her.

It was... quiet. And she severely doubted she was still in the car, because she was actually somewhat comfortable, disregarding the headache.

Harry was lying on something soft.

She frowned minutely, and then finally cracked her eyes open, prepared for the spike into her brain it brought her.

After a second, she could start to take in her surroundings.

Harry found herself blinking at a... ridiculously ornate ceiling.

She frowned, trailing the intricate pattern with her eyes, which left her staring at the _chandelier._ A massive monstrosity of delicate golden framework literally _dripping_ with sparkling crystals that did nothing to help her headache.

Harry felt like covering her eyes, the thing was ghastly.

Well, probably not, she just didn't see why any sensible person would want something like that in any room that wasn't a ballroom.

...this wasn't a ballroom, right?

With that thought, Harry slowly and carefully pushed herself into a seat to take a proper look around.

At least it wasn't a ballroom, Harry concluded grimly. Instead, it was the most ridiculous bedroom she had _ever_ seen.

There was a lot of gold and delicate looking furniture. There were large paintings on the walls, portraits and landscapes, though none of them were moving, which answered one question.

There were mirrors with gilded frames, thick, colourful carpets on the floor and she was sitting on a truly _monstrous_ bed. With lots and lots of frills and fluffy pillows.

Harry eyed it with distaste.

Then, she turned her eyes to her body and felt her distaste grow.

They'd very obviously washed her while she'd been out -and she wasn't sure how she felt about that- and put her in a truly ridiculous dress.

It was a pale pink.

Harry shuddered and shuffled to the edge of the mattress so she could stand up. Maybe she'd be able to find something else to wear. Something that wouldn't make her think of Umbridge.

And also, she concluded the moment she was standing up, something she wouldn't stumble over if she walked with anything other than carefully measured and slow steps.

This was ridiculous.

And horrifying, she silently added, taking in the huge, frilly skirt.

Harry gingerly picked at it and wondered if she couldn't just rip off the worst of the offending fabric. This was something she'd never felt any inclination to wear.

Well, nothing to do about it right now, anyway.

Harry turned back to the spacious room.

It was a very pretty prison cell, but that didn't mean she'd forgotten how she'd ended up here. And it wouldn't do anything to make her see it as anything other than what it was.

It was more a technicality than anything else, because she knew it wouldn't be open, but Harry still went to check what she assumed was the door out.

Nope, locked.

Great.

In short order, Harry explored the rest of the room, finding a just as spacious bathroom, all polished granite and gold details with soft-looking towels of a quality Aunt Petunia might have happily murdered for.

Harry was unimpressed, but also increasingly confused.

What sort of abduction was this?

She'd found the wardrobe, but her hopes about finding something better to wear had been thoroughly crushed.

There was nothing other than similar dresses in there, though, sure, the colour varied marginally, but they were all pale and delicate-looking, ranging from green, to pink, to blue and even a soft orange that wasn't too bad, but it was just a pity that that particular dress had been the ugliest waste of fabric she'd ever seen.

When she was done checking over every inch of the room she could actually reach, Harry trudged into the bathroom, feeling... a lot of things, but nothing positive.

And that was when she caught a look of herself in the mirror.

Oh dear _Merlin_ , no.

Her face had been painted with what must have been very obvious care, because... well, first off, her scar was barely visible.

Her lips had been painted a shade somewhere between red and pink, there was more colour on her cheekbones and her eyelids and she looked like a _doll_.

A doll with a crack in the face someone had tried to hide, but still a _doll_.

Horrified disgust welled up inside her until it felt like she'd throw up and Harry was at the sink in a heartbeat, turning the hot water on and scrubbing her face with her hands until it felt like she'd scald herself.

They had _no right to do this_.

When she eventually stopped, she was panting harshly and a glance in the mirror revealed the skin on her face was bright red from the water and frantic scrubbing, but she didn't _care_. The make-up was gone.

A small, hiccup-like sob escaped her before she took a deep breath and pulled herself together.

Placing her hands flat on the stone sink, she peered up a the ceiling and took deep breaths.

What did she know?

She was entirely alone, in a fancy room she'd rather never have stepped foot in, she didn't have her wand, they'd taken her clothes and dressed her up like _this_ , and she very clearly had to get out of here.

Throwing another look at herself in the mirror, a smouldering ember of righteous fury in her chest, she took in the artful coils someone had managed to wrangle her hair into.

She very deliberately raked her fingers through them until it more resembled her usual untameable mess. Whatever product they'd used made sure it wasn't the same, but was a damn sight better than _that_.

Alright, time to leave.

Harry was ripping off a few of the useless layers of fabric from the skirt of the dress she was wearing while she walked out of the bathroom, determinedly aiming for the windows. They'd be her best bet out of here.

The urge to grab one of the silk-covered, finely made wooden chairs and throw it at the closest window was strong, but instead, Harry dropped the fabric in her hands to the floor and walked up to the closest one, inspecting it carefully.

How nice: it didn't look like it could be opened.

No matter how gilded, this looked more and more like that prison cell she had compared it to, earlier.

With a grim, humourless baring of teeth that might be likened to a grin, Harry grabbed one of the chairs, lifted it above her head and slammed it into the floor.

It took some effort to break it apart enough to get one of the legs.

Harry weighed it in her hand: it'd make a good enough club.

And then she went to town on the window.

.

She was sweating and panting harshly after what must have been over half an hour's efforts, but she hadn't been able to make more than scratches in the 'glass' in the window.

What was this!?

With a frustrated yell, Harry chucked the chair leg at one of the mirrors and then slowly sank down to sit on the carpeted floor.

She slapped a hand over her face and tried to take deep breaths.

Her hands hurt. Her head hurt.

She missed Ron and Hermione; she'd never been in a situation like this without them at least nearby.

Were they looking for her yet?

How long would it take them to find her?

How could she have been _so stupid_ to let this happen?

Harriet frickin' Potter, Witch-Who-Won, acknowledged Auror, overpowered and abducted by a pair of muggles. The press would have a field-day.

Harry leaned back against the wall under the window, pushed her hair out of her face and took another deep breath.

No, she couldn't think like that.

She still didn't know what these people actually wanted with her. Unless they decided to keep her in here indefinitely, there _would_ be opportunities to escape. She'd keep her eyes and ears open and figure this out.

She'd been in worse situations.

Harry could deal.

.

Another two hours passed before anything even remotely interesting happened.

The lock in the door clicked, the sound loud in the silence in the room. It attracted Harry's full attention, though she didn't move from her seat on the floor.

The room still looked like a disaster, but she didn't feel an ounce of regret.

These people had put her in here, against her will. They could damn well deal with the consequences.

The door opened and a slim woman looked to be ushered inside. Her hair had been done up in a practical bun and she looked to be wearing some form of uniform. She was also carrying a loaded tray and shaking subtly with what Harry was pretty sure was fear.

Another victim? Or employee working under threat of punishment?

Harry studied her as the woman slowly walked into the room, eyes widening as she took in the broken mirror, the mess of the chair and the tattered remains of the dress Harry was wearing. The scraps of cloth she'd discarded on the floor. The scratched up window.

When the woman finally glanced at Harry, she raised an unamused eyebrow, waiting for any kind of comment.

Instead, she hastily directed her gaze to the tray in her hands, adopting a purely deferential posture that was making Harry uncomfortable just looking at.

She'd looked like that, once, and she didn't appreciate being the recipient of the sentiment.

The urge to demand explanations was near-overwhelming, but she managed to bite the words back. This woman didn't look like the kind of person who knew anything of any kind of value.

It would be better to bide her time.

Harry could be patient, and she was pretty sure she'd have to be, after her little display here today.

It wouldn't have mattered if she'd been able to get out, but since she hadn't...? Yeah, this was a setback.

The Dursleys had _hated_ when she'd showed signs of being anything other than what they'd _demanded_ she'd be, and there had always been consequences.

The question was, what kind of consequences could she be expecting here?

The woman had finally reached the round, wooden table that matched the chair Harry had destroyed and set the tray down. Then, without looking up from the floor, quickly and efficiently set about cleaning up the mess.

Harry watched her every move, which was no doubt unnerving, but she didn't care.

She'd had a shitty day, and her situation wasn't looking to get any better any time soon.

-x-x-x-

  
  


“Has she done anything else of note?”

“Nothing, haven't touched the food.”

“Pity. Might have to send in a doctor to take a look at her if this keeps up. Alert me if there are any changes.”

“Yes, sir.”

-x-x-x-

  
  


Harry hadn't moved from her spot on the floor all night, not to touch the food, and not to use the fancy bathroom that was frankly making her even more uncomfortable just thinking about it.

Instead, she'd been dozing lightly, trying to rest, but not feeling safe enough to actually sleep.

And that bed... Harry would get lost in that bed. This whole suite was just ridiculous.

She couldn't have felt more out of place if they'd _tried_.

Seriously, at least if they'd put her in a damp cellar, she'd have known what was going on.

Harry didn't rouse back to full wakefulness until the lock clicked loudly again, and the door opened to admit a minor hoard of people into the space she'd previously had entirely to herself.

She was on her feet in an instant, and silently cursed herself out in the back of her head, because spending the whole night sitting on the floor had left her stiff.

A middle-aged woman, whipcord thin and looking rather severe, strode up to her and tutted disapprovingly, eyeing her ruined dress with a frown.

She snapped out several sharp orders in a language Harry _couldn't understand_ which saw them both swarmed by a minor flock of what Harry abruptly realised much be... maids?

Automatically slapping reaching hands away from her, Harry frowned at the thin woman who was very clearly in charge.

In charge of these women, at least, because she, too, was dressed in some form of uniform, and in Harry's experience, uniforms were reserved for underlings. Not the one in charge.

Another string of words were spoken and someone reached for her again, and Harry shifted out of reach. The only problem was that she was all but surrounded and cornered against the wall, so there was nowhere to go.

“ _Don't_ touch me,” she said through clenched teeth, glaring, because she didn't like strangers touching her, and that was under normal circumstances.

This right here? Several times worse than usual and then some.

The middle-aged woman met her gaze firmly, even though she struggled minutely, if Harry wasn't mistaken. She still didn't _give_ , which was disappointing.

The same dance repeated several times until someone else was called in.

Two very tall, burly men walked in, wearing professional-looking suits and one of them wore sunglasses, even though they were indoors.

Harry fixed them both with a narrow-eyed look.

Oh, if only she'd had her wand, this would have been a piece of cake...

In the end, Harry was forcefully manhandled into the bathroom by the two _courteous_ bodyguards, or whatever the hell they were supposed to be.

That didn't mean she went quietly or meekly, and was quite proud of the elbow she'd planted in one of the guy's eyes and the kick that had _almost_ nailed the other one in the crotch.

Damn, she'd get it right next time.

And sure, it earned her a slap to the face that made her taste blood, but Vernon had given her worse when she'd been a kid and she merely grinned back a challenge.

If she could provoke a fight, she might be able to use that.

Instead, the woman swept into the room with five of her female underlings and Harry was stripped out of the remains of the dress and shoved into the shower.

Two of the women joined her, making it more than clear they'd wash her.

That was absolutely _out of the question_ , though, and Harry pushed them right back out again and snatched the washcloth out of the one's hand before she slammed the glass door shut between them with a sneer.

She'd wash herself, thank you very much.

So, disregarding her audience as well as she could, Harry stiffly turned on the water and washed.

If this kept up, she'd end up _murdering_ someone.

.

It took _hours_ before the Petunia look-alike was satisfied with the way she looked, and yeah, part of it was definitely Harry's fault, because she did _not_ want her hair done, make-up, dressed up like a doll!

So she fought back, struggled and was uncooperative at every turn.

She was sure she had gotten several new bruises just from how much she'd been grabbed and forced to sit, sit in this or that position, stand up, put this on, stand _still_ and she was seething with barely controlled fury by the time she was _finally_ left alone.

Harry tried to control her breathing as she stared at the once more closed and locked doors with so much loathing she might just hate these people.

It wasn't enough to abduct her, apparently.

This was more humiliating than anything Voldemort and his Death Eaters had ever done to her.

They'd tortured her and tried to kill her, sure, but _this?_

Harry seethed.

This was a new kind of torture and she wasn't sure how to deal with it.

They'd left her another tray of food and with a scoff, Harry walked up to it to take a look, even though she didn't trust these people enough to wash her socks, let alone eat their food.

Not that she was currently wearing any socks.

Annoyed, even with that minor detail, Harry lifted the silver bowl-like lid placed in the middle of the tray, revealing a carefully arranged meal on the plate beneath.

Some kind of bird meat, if she wasn't mistaken, together with potatoes, vegetables and fresh greens.

Harry poked at the food with her fingers, not caring one wit what these people thought of her, and it was very obvious they were keeping an eye on her.

Actually... did they have cameras everywhere in here? In the bathroom, as well?

Because if so, then these people had already seen her naked, and no matter what she felt about that... Harry glanced down at the Merlin-awful dress she was wearing.

A soft baby blue, today.

With a badly suppressed sneer, she tugged experimentally at it, unsure if she'd be able to get it off by herself or not, leaving several smears of meat juice on the fine fabric.

Harry didn't care.

She hadn't asked for this dress, hated it, in fact, and would gladly set it on fire and dance around the resulting flames buck naked.

She eyed the tray speculatively.

They'd provided her with cutlery; bad mistake. She could actually _use_ that.

Harry grabbed the knife and used it to attack the dress she had been strapped into, and it didn't matter that it had a dull blade, a few shallow serrated teeth intended only for soft, well-cooked food, but it was hard and something to work with.

Fabric was soft and fragile, if you went about it correctly.

Harry had mended enough of Dudley's cast-offs to know where things were liable to break first.

Producing a small, victorious sound when she managed to force the cutlery knife through one of the seams in her side, she made quick work of the thread keeping the whole thing together, and it was pretty easy to go from there to free herself from that particular torture contraption.

Throwing the pile of fabric aside without care, Harry eyed the piece of metal in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully and wondering if she could possibly hide this somewhere?

Doubtful.

If they truly did keep her under constant surveillance, then they'd know the moment she tried.

Best make use of it while she could, then.

With a nod, Harry turned back to the window with narrowed, speculative eyes.

The wooden chair leg had been useless, but this thing was made of metal. Which meant she might be able to get somewhere.

So, in underwear she hadn't chosen herself, with far too much lace and why had they forced her into a push-up bra? Harry strode over to the window to give it another go.

If nothing else, these people would learn she was stubborn.

-x-x-x-

  
  


The routine repeated every morning, and it just wasn't worth it to fight at every second of every day.

She'd wear herself out and make these people's jobs easier for them in the long run.

So eventually, she stopped struggling.

It was just easier to sit there, stiffly not looking at anyone while they painted her face, covered her scar, picked out one of the many ghastly dresses, and then, the moment they were gone, she'd wash it all off, because the feel of it on her skin made her want to stab someone.

The day after that first morning, the meal provided to her had been soup, and the only possible tool left at her disposal had been a single spoon.

Harry knew for a fact they were watching her, and that was just one big fuck you.

She still tried to use the spoon to get the hell out of her prison.

Four days into her captivity, Harry was starting to really feel the fact she hadn't eaten anything since... she wasn't actually sure how many days it'd been since they'd ambushed her and dragged her off.

She had a few black spots in her memory, but at least they weren't because of magic, so... silver lining.

Surviving on nothing more than water from the bathroom tap wasn't sustainable, though. She'd be making herself weaker than what was acceptable if she kept this up, and she knew it.

No matter how much it grated.

Harry had hoped someone would have come to rescue her, by now.

It would have been easy for one of her friends to Apparate in, grab her, and Disapparate out again.

Seeing at that hadn't happened, she'd have to re-evaluate her plans for the immediate future.

Which meant food.

No matter who they were, these people hadn't tried to starve her, she had to give them that.

If there were any foreign substances in the food they kept offering would remain to be seen, though.

With great reluctance, Harry suffered through the morning routine of getting dressed and prettied up and then waited for everyone to leave so she could enjoy the illusion of privacy.

The door once again closed and locked, Harry waited another while, because she was paranoid, and it was absolutely warranted in this situation.

Even though no one had come to bother her outside of in the mornings so far, that didn't mean it couldn't change without warning.

Harry needed to eat, though.

Four days wasn't as long as she'd ever gone without, but she knew from experience anything longer than this and she'd grow increasingly lethargic and thinking would get harder.

And she couldn't afford it.

Harry stalked up to the food tray, lifted the silver lid and clinically inspected what they were trying to feed her with today.

Some sort of pasta dish, covered in sauce.

There was fish in it, she was fairly sure, and some vegetables. A smaller plate with greens had been provided, as well.

How _thoughtful_.

Harry grabbed the smaller plate with the salad and began to pick through it, checking a piece of cucumber over before putting it in her mouth and chewing it carefully.

There were more things on the tray, of course.

A glass of wine, a smaller glass with what looked like some sort of juice, a couple of bread rolls, placed on their own plate, too. Some sort of dessert she had no idea what it actually was.

Some kind of jelly? Only it was white, and there were a few berries placed on top, and a red sauce...

Harry huffed at herself and went back to her careful meal.

Inspecting a small tomato, finding no obvious fault with it, Harry proceeded to put it in her mouth and repeated the process a few more times, before she turned to the main dish.

There was no way of knowing if they'd put anything in the sauce.

She grabbed one of the bread rolls, instead, and even though she knew they offered the same problem, it still felt safer.

And her stomach would no doubt react better to the bread than something as heavy as the pasta.

While she ate the bread roll, Harry turned to the main activity she'd kept to to occupy her time here.

Pacing.

Back and forth along the wall with the windows, trying to think up some sort of plan and staring out at the foreign landscape outside.

Sure, it was pretty, but she sure as hell wasn't in England any longer.

The language people kept ordering her around with fit in with that, too.

Harry angrily tore off another small piece of bread from her roll, inspected it, and then ate it, taking care to go slowly.

When she was done, she'd go drink some water and wash this goop off of her face while she was at it.

They couldn't keep her in here forever.

They couldn't.

That was the one thought she kept clinging to, desperately trying not to fall into the growing despair waiting to swallow her whole.

.

Two weeks after she'd woken up here -Harry was keeping careful count- something finally deviated from the normal that had established itself.

She was still put through the same torture with the make-up and the hair and the _dress_ every morning, but this day, _today_ , something changed two hours after she'd finally been left alone again.

The lock in the door clicked, and Harry honed in on the noise with every scrap of attention in her body.

Which, since she'd worked herself back up to full-sized meals again, was all of it.

She hadn't been drugged again so far, which was something, but she still didn't trust these people in the _slightest_ and she was fully prepared to stop eating again at the merest hint of foul play.

You know, more than abducting her and keeping her imprisoned in here was to begin with.

When the door opened, it was to admit a man into her prison cell, probably around forty years old, and there were a few speckles of grey at his temples, but he moved in a way that indicated he kept himself in good health, if a bit too fond of food, judging by the hint of a belly hiding under his neat suit.

“Good day,” he greeted, in English, with an affable smile and sharp, calculating eyes Harry distrusted on sheer principle.

Now _this_ was someone she might label as someone in charge.

If he was in charge of everything, or just parts of it, she had no idea, but it was a starting point.

“I see nothing good about it,” Harry returned evenly, staring unblinkingly at him.

“Please, take a seat,” he continued, as if Harry had merely offered a greeting back at him and not indirectly mentioned their abduction of her.

Seeing at the two bodyguards Harry had gotten acquainted with over the last two weeks had entered after the man, she was herded towards a chair in short order.

Harry bared her teeth at them, but didn't fight.

Not yet.

“Who are you?” Harry asked instead of commenting on anything else right now.

The man took a moment to study her face and hair, making a disappointed face at the lack of make-up and perfect coils.

As if she cared in the slightest what he thought of her.

“My name is Alarico Gabbiano, signorina,” he replied in a pleasant tone of voice at the same time as he snapped his fingers, which saw a maid walk into a room with a tray of coffee and some sort of dessert snack, if she wasn't mistaken.

Harry disliked coffee.

While everything was set up on the table between them with quick efficiency, Harry studied the man. Gabbiano.

“I hope you've settled into your rooms in the last couple of weeks. We've provided only the best for a person of such value as you,” Gabbiano continued smoothly, picking up his coffee cup and taking a measured sip as soon as the maid finished preparing it for him.

Something unpleasant crawled up her throat, but Harry just clenched her teeth, remaining silent and making no move to take the cup the maid prepared for her, next.

“I gave you my name, will you not give me yours, as manners dictate, signorina?” Gabbiano said after a stretch of loaded silence, breaking their staring-contest to send the nervous maid out of the room with a glance.

She considered it, decided it probably wasn't beneath him to choose one himself if she didn't comply, and said, “Harry.”

Gabbiano frowned, looking her over from head to toe, tilting his head in consideration and there was clear disapproval in his eyes.

“Surely, a Lady such as yourself is worthy of a more graceful name,” he muttered, putting down his coffee to hold his chin in a calculatedly thoughtful pose. “We shall call you Henrietta,” he decided and Harry's temper came _so close_ to snapping. “Henrietta is an appropriate name.” He nodded to himself.

Harry took a slow, deep breath and told herself they'd never let her get close enough to actually strangle him.

“You can say whatever you want, but that doesn't make it my name,” she told him coldly.

Both of them were aware he had all the power here.

“Come now, Lady Henrietta, you wound me,” Gabbiano said with a smile she might have felt tempted to call fatherly if it hadn't been for the look in his eyes. “You are a treasure gifted to my family by the Grace of God and you will never want for anything again for as long as you live. We wish only for your happiness and acceptance of your place in our family.”

Which was complete and utter bullshit, because they both knew very well what she thought of these rooms and the morning torture. Her numerous attempts to break the windows would have been enough of a hint that her happiness would be greater almost anywhere else.

Harry refused to say anything, because she knew herself and she'd just make everything worse.

Gabbiano returned to his coffee, taking one of the... bread-like things? There seemed to be chocolate in some of them.

“Now, if you can managed to behave yourself in a manner befitting of your station, then I will ensure you'll get a tour of the rest of the mansion,” the man said conversationally a while later, looking completely at ease. “If things go well, then I might even show you the private gardens. My wife is very fond of the roses.” He smiled.

Harry's fingers twitched with the urge to grab her coffee cup and throw it in his face, hot beverage and all.

She doubted the gratification would be worth it in the long run, though.

Harry took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Tried to think rationally.

She wished Hermione and Ron were here, because the both of them were so much better at this than her and she _missed them_. Like a constant ache in her chest.

“Lady Henrietta, I expect that you and I are now in full understanding of each other, yes?” he said with a sigh when he was finally done with his coffee and pastry. Fixing her with his full attention, but after Voldemort and Bellatrix, or a Hungarian Horntail, Harry was far from impressed. “Tomorrow, I will send you my _Nebbia_ and he will do his best to help you with the language,” he smiled thinly and she didn't like it, “provided you don't do anything else beneath your station, Henrietta, dear.”

His tone was so damn condescending it was almost impressive.

He held her gaze a second longer and then stood up with a nod.

“You are a charming conversationalist, my dear, and I must start to introduce me to my best people,” he said with a jovial smile, gesturing with his hands in a manner she took to mean the building they were in.

Harry managed to keep back the scoff until the door closed behind Gobbiano and his two grunts, but when they were finally gone and she was alone, she slumped down in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest to think.

So he wanted her to be a good little girl and let them do with her as they please?

 _Right_.

Well, she was perfectly capable of pretending to comply. She'd done it all the time before Hogwarts; she could do it again.

Only instead of pretending she 'wasn't a freak' or that she didn't exist to begin with, she'd be acting like their pretty doll and bide her time.

-x-x-x-

 


	2. Somehow, Things Get Worse

The following morning, after suffering through the usual horrors of being dressed and what-not, a new person walked into her prison before the Aunt Petunia-lookalike and her posse of maids could leave.

Harry eyed him with disgruntled suspicion.

What was it Gabbiano had called him? Nebbie? Or something.

He wasn't particularly tall, with black hair and a nondescript face. His eyes, though... his eyes were what caught her attention.

It wasn't the colour, but something else she couldn't put her finger on, she just knew she didn't like it.

At all.

He looked at her like... Like Skeeter had looked at her when they'd first met. Like Harry was the scoop of her life just waiting for her to reach out and grab hold of.

This man was eyeing her similarly, before he plastered a pleasant smile on his face and began to ooze something that seemed to say 'you can trust me, I'm likeable and good, and we're gonna become wonderful friends' and Harry most of all wanted to kick him in the nuts.

This might lead to a possible way out, though, so she restrained her temper and remained in her seat.

Petunia's double fired a brief string of questions at the man, which he answered almost dismissively.

One of Gabbiano's muscle-men opened the door for the retreating maids and then stepped into the room once they'd gone and closed the door behind him. Taking up position in front of it.

Asshole.

Harry turned her attention back to Nebbie, who was still eyeing her like she was a surprise gift.

“Let us get started, then?” Nebbie said pleasantly, motioning at the seat next to her with a mildly inquiring air about him.

In addition to the sickly-sweet atmosphere he seemed to exude. Like rotten fruit.

Harry absently wondered if the make-up on her face would crack if she wrinkled her nose, but then pushed the thought aside, because stuff was happening now.

Not that she was entirely sure what kind of 'stuff' it was yet.

“Get what, exactly, started?” Harry questioned, as calmly as she was capable.

Nebbie's smile widened. “Help your understanding of the local language, of course. As Don Gabbiano informed you yesterday, Lady Henrietta.”

Again with that horrible name.

Harry wanted her wand. _Sorely_.

Voldemort had placed a taboo on his name, she was sure she could figure out how to do the same with this one.

Instead of fantasizing about what she'd do to these people if she had had access to her wand, Harry narrowed her eyes on Nebbie.

He didn't look like any kind of teacher or tutor or whatever the hell rich people used for these sorts of things.

“It'll be quick,” he 'assured' her, but Harry didn't trust that at all.

Nebbie sent her what was no doubt a charming smile, but Harry felt like throwing up on his shoes, she was so _not_ charmed, but then there was a... vaguely familiar sensation and she stopped moving entirely.

Not that Harry had been moving much up to that point, sitting down as she was, but now, she was completely frozen.

She knew this sensation.

She knew it _intimately_ and she had never wanted to feel it again.

Harry's temper snapped and she tore herself out of her frozen shock with molten fury in her chest as she fixed Nebbie with a look that she hoped conveyed every single little bit of her feelings right now.

“ _Get out of my head_ ,” she told him in a chillingly calm voice that sounded alien to her own ears. She was so angry there was a rushing in her ears and the lights in the room actually flickered faintly.

Harry was too distracted to notice.

She hadn't even noticed standing up, but she _had_. At some point.

Nebbie had frozen in his seat. He was pale, sweating and looking on the brink of fainting.

He didn't move, though, and when that niggling feeling in her head, like a worm trying to wiggle its way deep inside her brain, didn't disappear, she felt her magic stir beneath her skin and she _forced_ him out!

Some part of her envisioned slamming a Gringott's Vault door in his face with enough force to smash it.

His face, not the door, obviously.

When she blinked back to the present, Harry was panting hard with exertion and Nebbie had fled the room, taking the bodyguard with him.

Harry huffed out an infuriated growl and stomped over to the windows to try and walk her anger off. It was the best she could do with her limited options.

.

Two days after Nebbie's brief visit, Harry was taken out of 'her room' for the first time, and that was after she'd done her best to 'behave herself' as Gabbiano had so delicately phrased it.

The bloody git.

Since the moment she'd stepped foot out the door, she'd been flanked by the two bodyguards, and they kept close enough she wondered if she wouldn't get squished between them if they stepped any closer.

Harry irritably bore it and let them steer her in whatever direction they wanted, busy enough by subtly keeping an eye out for a possible escape route.

Trying for freedom right away would be stupid, and she didn't doubt they'd toss her back in her cell with little care for another few weeks, and she'd _go insane_.

So no, Harry was biding her time, keeping her eyes and ears open.

The hallways and rooms they took her through were all very grand and decorated with things that probably cost more than Harry could even imagine, but she didn't feel impressed.

She'd actually like a word with whoever chose the décor, because this was all awfully tacky.

They took her to a gaudy dining hall, and she wasn't happy to see Gabbiano, but easily enough let them manoeuvrer her into a chair beside him.

“Good morning, Lady Henrietta,” he greeted affably, taking his eyes off of his breakfast long enough to look her over. Inspect her. “I was very glad to hear my people had nothing of note to report in the last two days,” he continued casually, turning back to his food. “I hope you'll be able to fully appreciate the beauty of your new home and greet our family with a ready smile.”

Hell no.

Harry hadn't felt like smiling with anything other than aggression since this whole thing started.

Smiling sincerely at the people who were keeping her here against her will? Trying to force her into the mould of an obedient doll?

She'd pass, thank you.

Harry was provided with her own plate of breakfast and she dutifully picked up the fork and ate.

They apparently wanted her healthy, which was _something_ , but she still hadn't gotten an answer as to why they were so insistent on adopting her or whatever this whole thing was supposed to be. From _their_ perspective, at least.

Gabbiano kept calling it 'our' family. As if Harry had any interest in complying with that.

She felt like scoffing.

When they were done eating, Gabbiano rose to his feet and swept out an arm in an inviting gesture. “Come, and I shall introduce you to some of my closest men,” he said.

Harry did as directed, no matter how much it grated.

Soon enough, she'd been seated on a delicate-looking sofa, gotten an equally delicate coffee cup and saucer placed into her hands and she found herself staring pensively at three men. All wearing suits and looking more or less comfortable.

One looked completely at ease, with a mildly bored expression on his face, while the other two were far more attentive and alert.

Nebbie was lurking in the corner furthest away from her, as if hoping she wouldn't notice him, but she was content to ignore that for now.

Gabbiano took the seat beside her, far too close for her comfort.

“Lady Henrietta,” he began, reaching out to place his hand on her forearm and she twitched minutely. “Meet my son, Armando,” he said, gesturing with his other hand at the bored-looking man slumped in the sofa opposite them, seated between the other two.

Nebbie was still lurking in the far corner.

“Charmed,” Harry said in a voice so dry it could peel paint, she was sure. There was also a completely deadpan expression on her face, and she didn't know how anyone could mistake her reply for anything other than the bullshit it was.

'Armando' dutifully turned his attention to her, but spent the next few seconds inspecting her face, before drawling out something in whatever language they were using, and Harry considered if she most of all wanted to laugh or put him on the ever-growing list of people she wanted to curse.

Probably the latter.

She could laugh _while_ cursing him, she decided.

Because that sentence? She may not have understood it, but that didn't mean she didn't recognize the tone.

People had been looking at her and found her lacking her whole life.

Gabbiano ignored his son's comment and instead continued with the introductions. “Then there's Rocco,” he gestured at the guy on the left, who inclined his head in a cordial nod, “and Luca, both some of my most trusted.”

Harry actually didn't know what to make of this whole... meet-and-greet.

What was the objective here?

Did Gabbiano just want to parade her around? For some strange reason?

It didn't make sense.

And that was about as far as she got, following that particular trail of thought, before it felt like something pressed down on her. Only it wasn't just down, but from all around and for one confusing second, Harry wondered if she was Apparating, but no, that wasn't right.

She was still sitting on the sofa, and Gabbiano had a firm grip on her arm.

It felt like she couldn't breathe, even when she distantly realised she was. Her rib cage expanded, sucking air into her lungs, but it was distant.

It felt like something slimy was crawling up her spine and Harry _hated it_.

Hated this. Hated this feeling and this whole situation.

Barely biting back a hiss of ' _stop it_ ' Harry clenched her teeth and tried to clear her head.

What in Merlin's name was this!?

She was... slowly getting used to it, and when she reached the point where she once more became aware of the room around her, she immediately noticed the way every single man in the room was staring at her and-

Were they responsible for this?

Were they trying to- to _break_ her or something?

She'd have none of it. Absolutely not.

Harry raised her chin in silent challenge and finally raised the cup in her hand to take a measured sip of coffee, even though it was far too bitter.

There was nothing more upsetting than indifference to people who wanted to break you.

The question was; did she challenge them outright? Or feign ignorance.

...Harry was very good at that first one and not very good at all at the latter. Damn it. She had a feeling she should go with ignorance.

If Ron and Hermione had been here, they'd tell her to go for ignorance, she was sure of it.

So Harry sat there, in silence, drinking the stupid coffee and acting like five men weren't staring intently at her while they did... _something_.

As if she'd ever just roll over and accept defeat.

They had no idea who it was they were dealing with.

-x-x-x-

  
  


Harry was taken on another tour of the manor the day after, though by a different route.

She'd been obedient and perfectly polite even, but she was more determined than ever to get away.

She was just biding her time.

So while bodyguard One and Two were walking her through a long corridor lined with portraits on the ground floor, she threw an eye at the windows every now and then, placed at even distances down the way.

Pausing to stare at the various portraits every now and then gave her plenty of time to consider her plan.

If it could pass as one.

Well, she would never know if it'd work or not if she didn't try, so to hell with caution.

If it worked, then good! She wouldn't have to worry about it.

If it didn't... she'd deal with the fallout.

Just before they reached the next window, Harry began to slow, feigning interest in the portrait of a portly old man dressed to the nines peering down at her with a superior look on his face. He looked far too smug and self-important to be called attractive and she didn't know why anyone would want his portrait hanging in their house.

The important thing, though, was that One and Two believed they knew what to expect now and had grown complacent.

They were waiting for her to look her fill and then continue the sedate walk down the corridor to whatever destination they had in mind.

Instead, Harry slid behind and past bodyguard Two and threw herself out of the window with as much force as she could manage.

With a loud crash and a shower of glass, Harry tumbled out into the flowerbeds beneath the window and she rolled to her feel with a triumphant grin, ignoring the shouts behind and above her and immediately tried to run towards... well, _away_.

Away was good enough right now.

Harry took one step and almost face-planted in the grass and cursed out the ridiculous dress she was wearing.

Hurriedly gathering up the voluminous skirts, she ran the moment she'd gotten enough of the damn fabric to free up her legs for running.

And then she took off.

She'd been here long enough and hadn't enjoyed her stay.

There were more people shouting behind her, but Harry didn't so much as glance over her shoulder.

No, she kept her eyes on the prize and threw everything she had into getting free.

When she was tackled to the grass, Harry felt tempted to let out a frustrated _scream_ because she'd been _so close_!

She'd manage next time, she thought grimly when they carried her back to the house and threw her back into her prison cell.

 _Next time_.

-x-x-x-

  
  


“-found themselves a Sky,” someone said and Renato paused in the act of reaching for his glass.

“Excuse me?” he said blandly, turning to the two mafiosi that had been speaking, shamelessly cutting into their conversation.

If they didn't want to get overheard, then they shouldn't be talking about things like that in public.

Or however much a Mafia bar could be classified as 'public' anyway.

“The Gabbiano found themselves a Sky,” he repeated, turning to Renato with interest. “Rumour says, anyway. No one outside the Family's actually seen the girl.”

“Oh?” Renato eyed him idly, picking up his glass and bringing it to his mouth to take a sip of his whiskey.

Sometimes, people were more eager to talk if you _didn't_ directly ask.

“Poor girl's apparently too frail to leave her rooms. Damn shame that,” the man continued, shaking his head. “Had a bad life before the Gabbiano saved her, too,” he added under his breath. “You get me?”

Renato tipped his head in a shallow nod and turned back to his drink.

World was a shitty place.

Instead of delving deeper into the latest gossip, Renate focused on the bar around him and made plans for the hit he'd just been commissioned for. He knew a good information broker not far from here, which would be a decent starting point.

-x-x-x-

  
  


Harry was back to being locked in her cell as 'punishment' for her escape attempt.

It'd been a week, and she hadn't set foot outside the opulent room they'd chosen to jail her in. But unlike before, she didn't spend her days mostly alone.

It wasn't an improvement.

After the Petunia Double and her maids left every morning, she was joined by one of the three men Gabbiano had 'introduced' her to. Mostly, she was kept company by the man's son, whatever his name had been.

He spent the hours lounging on the couch and talking to her in a language she couldn't understand, while Harry did her best to ignore him.

It wasn't easy, considering all of them kept up with the... _pressure_. She didn't know what it was; it didn't feel like magic and she had already established these people were muggles, anyway.

And while it wasn't a joined, concentrated effort like that first time, the prolonged exposure was wearing on her until her grasp on her temper grew... strenuous.

Curiously enough, Nebbie hadn't showed his face again, and she could only be glad for it.

One less menace to worry about.

Didn't change the fact Harry was starting to feel like a chained dragon.

Gabbiano paid her another visit, and it was one of his comments that made something finally give.

Harry was alone, it was evening, and there was a beautiful sunset outside the windows she was pacing along.

It was a lovely view, but she was preoccupied.

She only acknowledged the maid bringing in her dinner with a glance, not pausing in her quest to wear down the thick carpet.

It wasn't until the woman left that Harry turned to eye the food tray.

With a snort, she walked up to it to take a look, see what Gabbiano was trying to feed her with today.

She was just glad it looked like she'd be able to eat alone.

Lifting the silver cover, Harry eyed the entrecôte waiting for her, looking to have been expertly cooked, but it wasn't what she ended up staring at.

Together with the dish, she'd been provided the appropriate cutlery and Harry slowly reached for the steak knife.

It was quite a bit different from normal cutlery knives.

Gabbiano's earlier comment rang in her ears and Harry considered it.

He'd praised her hair.

Harry liked her hair. It was a daily reminder of her dad, but also Sirius, because she'd been growing it out since she'd been around thirteen.

When she'd been old enough and away often enough to be able to put up a fight with Aunt Petunia. Her dear old Aunt had always kept her hair short, finding the unruly locks less than desirable and had always told her how much of a bother it was when it got too long.

Narrowing her eyes and considering how much time she might have, she discreetly picked up the knife and strode towards the bathroom.

The moment she was in front of the mirror, Harry eyed herself, grabbed a few of the careful coils and sawed them off with the steak knife, feeling something like spiteful satisfaction warm her chest.

She managed to cut off most of it before anyone came barging in, swearing, to stop her.

Harry grinned at the two bodyguards, who eyed the knife in her hand with a small measure of wariness.

But no, this had been a statement and a way to hopefully lessen the amount of torture she had to suffer through every morning, and she was fully aware everyone here would be unhappy with her actions, but she didn't care.

She felt like... like she'd reclaimed a part of her they'd tried to take away and make their own.

Harry's hair was supposed to be wild, and the most she ever did herself was put it in a pony tail.

She liked that. It made her think of quidditch practice and Auror work. Baby-sitting Teddy and Victoire, or helping Molly bake.

This? This was oppression and captivity, and she'd cut it off with relish.

“You will regret,” one of the muscle-men in front of her grunted in poor English, grabbing her arm in a bruising grip and taking the knife from her, but her goal had already been accomplished. They'd have to even the mess out and cut off the rest.

So Harry bore it with a smile.

.

They neatened up the butchery Harry had committed on her hair, and she was provided with -ridiculously enough- a wig-like thing she would most of all have wanted to flush down the toilet. They clipped it into the hair she still had and it looked almost like nothing at all had changed.

At least it was quicker, and Harry still felt strangely accomplished.

Gabbiano had been _unhappy_ and there was nothing that would take the memory of the look on his face from Harry when he'd seen her with short hair.

-x-x-x-

  
  


Renato got to Ravenna by train.

It was the territory of the Gabbiano Family; smugglers, who also did a fair bit of racketeering, and not very high in the mafia pecking order.

Renato had never done any business with them, personally, seeing as he had little need of smugglers and loan sharks.

He had it on semi-reliable authority that his latest target had passed through here, and so he was following the trail.

Finding a decent hotel and getting a room for his stay, Renato set out to case out the town, get a feel for the place, both in general, and the underworld side of things.

He'd spent the better part of an hour at one of the many cafes, getting some coffee and listening in on the local gossip, when he stumbled upon something fairly interesting.

Exiting the cafe, Renato was very nearly run over by a young lady who looked like she'd gotten turned around and separated from whatever bodyguards she surely was used to.

Renato caught her before she fell to the ground in response to the unexpected impact.

The carefully made hair, the make-up and the elaborate, expensive dress couldn't hide the sharpness to her very green eyes, though, and Renato quickly readjusted his first impression.

“Let go of me,” she hissed sharply in English, and Renato absently realised he was still holding her upper arms in a firm but careful grip.

“Are you in distress, signorina?” he asked, curious, despite himself.

This was- _unusual_ , to say the least.

On further inspection there were a few drops of blood on her right sleeve.

“None of your business, now let go of me,” she snapped back, yanking her arms free, taking a step back to get her bearings, scanned their surroundings, gathered up her skirts and clearly intended to run off again.

Renato was... intrigued.

“You didn't answer my question, darling,” he pressed, before she could disappear, and the endearment slipped out at the end, partly to see what reaction it would get him and partly because, well. She sure was dressed for it.

“ _Listen_ ,” the woman said, slowly and clearly, eyes narrowing as they focused on his face with a surprisingly pleasant amount of intent. “I am _no one's_ darling, and if you try to call me that again, I'll strangle you.”

She seemed completely serious about it, too, and Renato couldn't help the miniscule little smile that twitched his lips.

“You think I'm joking? Because I'm not,” she added with an aggravated growl.

There was a shout some distance away, not close enough to be within sight, not yet, and the woman jumped and swore.

“You in some kind of trouble?” Renato asked, before he could help himself, and some distant part of him wondered why he cared. He'd seen women more beautiful, more... blessed, in certain areas.

Those sharp, green eyes focused on him again, looking him up and down and Renato's Flames all but purred.

“You look like you're one of _them_ ,” she spat the word, as if it was foul and Renato's eyebrows rose, “all of them seemed fond of suits and you feel the same,” she muttered. “You work for Gabbiano?” And she eyed him suspiciously.

Renato smirked. “He couldn't afford me.” Which wasn't quite true, but close enough.

Quick as a snake, one of the woman's deceptively dainty-looking hands snapped out to press over the gun in the holster at his side, hidden beneath his suit, and Renato had in turn grabbed her hand.

She smiled, sharp and triumphant, carefully painted lips parting to show a flash of teeth. “So you're the same but not part of 'the family'?” she mused, softly, to herself.

The shouts and activity in the distance was getting closer and she eyed the far corner pensively a second.

“I'm freelance,” Renato told her, wondering what she was thinking, because this wasn't panning out like he'd thought it would. Any part of it.

She frowned, looking like she was running that through her head.

The shouting was getting closer.

“If you get me out of here, without them finding me, helping me _home_ ,” she was speaking carefully, enunciating every word as if it carried weight in a way people usually didn't,” I will pay you whatever price you want within reason, in gold, the moment the contract has been fulfilled.”

Renato blinked and looked her over again. “That's not really my line of business,” he said, though he was busy thinking about it. “And I'm in the middle of a job right now.”

“That's fine, as long as _Gabbiano_ doesn't get his hands on me, you can take a month or two to do your part and we're set.” She eyed the corner again. “Set your price, do your part, and I will give you twice your weight in gold if you wish it.”

She was dead serious about it, too.

Renato hummed.

He wasn't exactly tight for cash, but an amount like that would make a _very_ nice cushion for a rainy day.

“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand to shake.

The woman took it, shook it firmly, and grinned with little actual humour. “Deal,” she agreed.

“Shall we, then?” Renato asked pleasantly, placing her hand in the crook of his arm and starting down the street at a decent clip.

Running attracted more attention.

“A suggestion, mysterious man I just met,” she said conversationally, “I'll double your salary if you get me out of this M- God-awful dress.”

Renato side-eyed her amusedly. “Are you trying to get in my pants, madam?” he asked playfully, still trying to get a grip on this woman.

She turned to eye him blandly. “I'd gladly wear them rather than this monstrosity, so yes?”

He had to bite back a snicker. “Oh, we're going to get along _splendidly_ ,” he told her with a smirk. “I'm sure I saw a suitable shop down this way, dear.”

“Right,” she huffed, eyeing him warily a second, before she focused on the next part. “I currently stand out like a sore thumb, so let's be quick, handsome.”

“Oh, you think I'm handsome? I wasn't aware flattery was part of my payment.”

“I could just call you a peacock if that's more to your liking,” she fired back, not missing a beat.

Renato pressed his free hand to his chest. “I am _wounded_ ,” he told her solemnly.

“I don't pay to tend to your fragile ego,” she snarked back and Renato was _charmed_. He had a feeling this would be a very nice gig.

.

She strode off the moment Renato steered them into a clothing store, very determined and shooting him such a poisonous look while she was at it, he pointedly _didn't_ offer any suggestions.

Instead, he watched her grab a couple of pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, some underwear, barely doing more than glancing at them, before she stalked up to the register with a determinedly polite smile.

Renato took that as his cue and slid into the space beside her to pay, charming the woman working the till while he was at it, because if you had to be remembered, it was better to be remembered _fondly_ , and his current company was _very_ memorable.

She was done up like some sort of princess.

“Thank you very much,” she said sincerely, accepting the bags with the clothes from the flustered woman, and then turned back to Renato, all business again.

Pity, she actually had a rather attractive smile.

“Hm?” he hummed questioningly, already steering them back to the doors, guiding her with a hand on her elbow.

“Find me a bathroom to get changed in,” she requested, grimacing unhappily and then paused. “You want to keep the dress? I'd gladly burn it, but if you have any other ideas, then go ahead.”

Renato felt his eyebrows rise again, because this woman was _full_ of surprises.

He glanced over the dress, and it was without a doubt both expensive and of high quality, but it wasn't like he had the time to do anything with that right now, what with not one but _two_ jobs to deal with.

“We'll get rid of it,” was what he said, though.

Discreetly. Because it truly was an eye-catching piece of clothing, and it'd give their pursuers a very clear trail to follow.

They didn't talk after that, the woman content to follow his lead while Renato navigated them through Ravenna through smaller streets and alleys on a path that would be confusing to anyone, let alone people who thought they were chasing down a lone woman who had never been here before.

Instead of going in via the front doors, where there were cameras, Renato went around to the back of the hotel he'd checked into just a few hours ago, and took them up the service stairs to his room.

“Better than a restaurant bathroom,” he told her easily at the look she fixed him with.

Seemingly seeing the sense in it, she huffed irritably and walked into his simple room, looking like she was half-expecting some sort of ambush.

Renato peered at her with a measure of approval, and then followed, closing the door behind him.

There was a very small table with two chairs shoved against one wall, and Renato walked over to sit in one of them, eyeing his new... charge? curiously.

“How do you wanna do this?” he asked, because it wasn't like he'd done jobs like this before. Usually, his only concerns when it came to clients was to get someone very dead.

And he was very good at it.

The woman looked marginally more relaxed now than she had out in the open, which was something, and she sighed, pulling one hand through her hair, only to come away with most of it in her fingers.

Renato blinked.

...that was unexpected.

She looked around the small room again, taking in everything from the door, the bed, Renato, where he was sitting and the small but serviceable bathroom.

Then, she glanced down on herself with a grimace.

With another huff, she tossed the... wig? Hair extensions? No, actually, he could see some sort of clip now, but he wasn't sure what to call it. Either way, she tossed it on the bed and then walked over to it to put her bags of clothes down.

She dug out a complete set of clothes from the bags, put them in a neat pile, and then hesitated.

“I require some assistance,” she said reluctantly, eyeing him with a healthy dose of suspicion, and yeah, they'd just met, didn't know a thing about the other, other than what they'd covered so far, but-

“It's in my best interest to keep my employer happy,” he informed her blandly. He preferred his partners to be both willing and enthusiastic participants of anything intimate, and he was perfectly capable of being professional.

She eyed him a second longer, before she nodded, seemingly satisfied with that.

He wondered if she was a good judge of character or just painfully naïve. Either answer seemed possible at this point.

The woman kicked off her shoes -matching the dress- and then turned around to expose the intricate lacing in the back, which made sure the dress couldn't be taken off without assistance, like she'd said.

Renato got to his feet and approached slowly; there was no need to make things harder on himself by rushing.

Who knew how long this job would take to complete? And he'd have to stick close to her to get that promised pile of gold.

Having a friendly relationship would make that so much easier.

Humming softly to himself, Renato reached out and started loosening the lace, making sure his movements were slow and unhurried. Clearly projected.

“You've done this before?” she asked into the uncomfortable silence, keeping her gaze fixed on the small window on the wall in front of her.

“Helped a lovely lady out of her dress? Sure,” Renato drawled. “Under these kinds of circumstances? Not really.”

She gave a soft, amused snort and relaxed marginally.

It took quite a few minutes to loosen the bodice enough so that she'd be able to get the dress off, but he didn't mind. Laying low for a while would be in their best interest right now and it wasn't like Renato had planned to do anything more serious about his information hunting until later tonight anyway and-

His thoughts quieted and died and he felt all of him still.

Peeling the edges of the bodice aside to check there weren't any hooks or clasps he had to undo, his fingers had brushed against the woman's back and...

Slowly moving the pad of his index finger up her spine, Renato watched colour bloom to life under his touch like flowers bursting to life in response to the sun.

There was something large and black on the skin on the woman's back and he hadn't thought anything of it before he'd touched it and it _came to life_ with colour.

Gold, reds, oranges and yellow. Lots of yellow.

“What are you doing?” she asked when Renato continued to drag his fingers up her back, to her shoulder, watching the reaction with shocked fascination.

...he didn't know her name.

She was his-? And he didn't know her _name_.

“Seriously, _what_ are you doing?” she asked again, taking a step away from him and turning around on the spot to frown at him.

Her frown deepened at the no-doubt speechless look on his face, but he didn't care, he couldn't- Renato could safely say he _hadn't anticipated this_.

“Oi, handsome? I thought you said you'd done this before? It's just some skin; nothing to go all vacant-eyed over,” she muttered, starting to look vaguely uncomfortable.

Renato blinked and focused back on her face, still covered in far more make-up than was needed, but her eyes were entirely her own.

Instead of saying anything -what could he say?- he pulled off his tie and quickly and efficiently unbuttoned his shirt, almost tearing off the button on his jacket in his haste.

In the same move, he yanked the material aside with one hand and reached for her hand with the other and had pressed it flat to his chest before she could do more than try and yank it back.

He knew, without having to look, that it had... worked, by the widening of her eyes and the way her face went slack.

“Holy crap,” she whispered.

-x-x-x-

 


End file.
